I always have one or two, sometimes more, Navajo or other tribes'

Host: The desert stretched endlessly under a crimson sky, where the sun sank like a bleeding ember into the bones of the earth. The wind whispered through dry sagebrush, carrying with it the faint echo of forgotten chants. A small campfire flickered between two silhouettes — Jack and Jeeny — their faces half-lit by the firelight, half-swallowed by shadow. Somewhere beyond, the rocks guarded the resting places of those who once walked this land.

Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, eyes hard and thoughtful. Jeeny sat cross-legged, her gaze soft yet fierce, as if listening to something deeper than the night itself.

Jeeny: “Tony Hillerman once said, ‘I always have one or two, sometimes more, Navajo or other tribes' cultural elements in mind when I start a plot. In Thief of Time, I wanted to make readers aware of Navajo attitude toward the dead, respect for burial sites.’ It’s beautiful, isn’t it? He wrote not just about mystery, but about reverence — about respecting silence as much as story.”

Jack: “Beautiful, yes. But it’s also limiting. A writer’s job isn’t to protect belief systems — it’s to challenge them. If you start every story thinking about what can’t be touched, you’ll never dig deep enough. Art demands intrusion.”

Host: The fire snapped, a spark leaping skyward like a fleeting soul. Jeeny’s eyes followed it until it disappeared into the dark.

Jeeny: “You call it intrusion. I call it listening. The Navajo believe that disturbing the dead brings disharmony, not because they fear ghosts, but because it breaks the circle — the balance between living and memory. Hillerman didn’t avoid it; he wove that belief into his stories, made us see through their eyes.”

Jack: “Beliefs don’t need protection; they need truth. If a burial site hides something — a crime, a lie, an artifact — shouldn’t we uncover it? Isn’t that what civilization has done for centuries? The archaeologist, the journalist, the scientist — all of them dig. Without digging, we’re just romanticizing ignorance.”

Host: The flame flared briefly, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits against the sandstone wall. The air was heavy with tension, thick as the smoke that rose between them.

Jeeny: “But civilization has also taken, Jack. We’ve dug until nothing sacred remains. Do you remember the Pueblo ruins near Chaco Canyon? Tourists used to climb into the burial chambers, taking bits of pottery, bits of bone, like souvenirs. You call it discovery. I call it disrespect. Hillerman wasn’t trying to romanticize — he was trying to remind us that some things are not ours to touch.”

Jack: “Respecting culture shouldn’t mean locking away the past. The truth doesn’t belong to one people. It belongs to everyone. When we study those ruins, we learn. When we preserve bones in a museum, we honor the dead by understanding them. Isn’t that a kind of respect too?”

Host: A cold gust swept across the mesa, bending the flames sideways. Jack’s eyes reflected the firelight, sharp and analytical; Jeeny’s reflected the stars, quiet and infinite.

Jeeny: “Understanding isn’t the same as owning, Jack. There’s a difference between looking and seeing. The Navajo way teaches that the dead deserve rest, not display. You can’t dissect spirit under a microscope. That’s what Hillerman knew — he didn’t just write about the dead, he wrote about how we remember them.”

Jack: “And what about the living? Should we silence the writer because the story might offend someone’s belief? Should we censor art in the name of spiritual etiquette? Hillerman had the luxury of respect — others might not. What happens when the truth is ugly?”

Jeeny: “Then the truth must still be told — but told with care. There’s a way to speak without breaking. You can walk through a graveyard and still hear the voices without disturbing the ground. Hillerman’s stories did that — they walked softly. Isn’t that what art is supposed to do? Reveal, but not ravage?”

Host: The silence stretched. The crickets sang. The fire cracked like old bones settling into sleep.

Jack: “Maybe. But you can’t build progress on superstition. If every culture had refused to be questioned, we’d still think thunder was a god’s anger. Science — art — civilization itself — they all come from the same impulse: to know. To ask even when the answer hurts.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when knowing becomes violence? When curiosity becomes conquest? You can’t separate knowledge from ethics. Look at what happened to the Native burial grounds during the construction of railroads — they were plowed, burned, forgotten — all in the name of progress. Did that make us wiser? Or just more ruthless?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, like the edge of a note held too long. Jack looked down, jaw tight, the muscles in his face twitching under the orange light.

Jack: “You talk about harmony, but harmony doesn’t always bring truth. Sometimes it’s just silence pretending to be peace. If we never uncover what’s buried — literally or culturally — how do we grow?”

Jeeny: “And if we uncover everything, how do we still feel? Growth without reverence becomes decay. You can excavate a culture’s history until it’s all cataloged, all explained, and yet entirely soulless. Hillerman’s point wasn’t to freeze belief — it was to honor it, to weave it into a story that breathes. He invited, not invaded.”

Host: The stars now glowed sharper, cutting through the ink-black sky. The fire had burned low, embers pulsing like a slow heartbeat between them.

Jack: “So you think the writer should be a kind of priest — always reverent, always cautious?”

Jeeny: “No. I think the writer should be a bridge. Between the ancient and the modern, the seen and the unseen. You can step on a bridge — you can even cross it — but you don’t tear it down to see how it was made.”

Jack: “Maybe I’ve just never believed in ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you just haven’t met one that speaks your language.”

Host: The moment hung, electric. The firelight flickered across Jack’s face, softening the hard lines. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote called — long, mournful, ancient.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my grandfather used to tell me stories about our ancestors. I always thought they were just stories — fables, nothing more. Then one day, when they were tearing down the old church to build apartments, they found bones beneath the floorboards. He never told me, but I saw it in his eyes — that those bones meant something to him. Maybe I get it now.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Hillerman understood — that stories are not just about the dead, but about how the living carry them. You see, the Navajo word for ‘the dead’ isn’t just about death — it’s about relationship, the web of all things. Disturb one part, and everything trembles.”

Host: The fire died to ashes, but the night glowed with quiet understanding.

Jack: “So maybe art isn’t about trespassing or protecting — maybe it’s about listening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Listening is the rarest form of creation.”

Host: They sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty, but full — full of what was said, and what wasn’t. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of sage, sand, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke — like the breath of something ancient and kind.

Jack stood, brushing the dust from his jeans, and looked toward the horizon, where the first pale line of dawn began to bleed into the sky.

Jeeny smiled, her eyes reflecting the slow light.

Jeeny: “Let them rest, Jack. And let their stories keep us awake.”

Host: The sun rose quietly over the desert, spilling gold over the rocks, the ashes, the quiet faces of two people who had both — in their own ways — found the same truth: that respect and curiosity, when held together, form the only kind of knowledge that endures.